The Knife's Edge
by Alobear
Summary: Napoleon gets sick of Illya's over-protectiveness and decides they need to talk.


The Knife's Edge

by Alobear

Category: Slash

Pairing: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo

Notes:

I was *supposed* to be writing a novel and two stories from other fandoms (correction, I was supposed to be *sleeping*) - but I just couldn't get these two out of my head. Still, I've learned that when characters take up residence in my brain, the best thing is just to let them get on with whatever they want...

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Napoleon paused a moment to take stock of the situation. He was ankle deep in water in a large storm drain tunnel under an enemy building complex. It was cold and rather dark; not the kind of place he would have chosen to spend his evening. He could feel the weight of the camera slung across his back, the film full of vital intelligence that needed to get back to UNCLE. Oh yes, and there was a gun pointed at his head.

His own gun was down at his side, a good split-second away from being any use to him. It was pure bad luck that the random guard now facing him had been using the tunnel for a cigarette break as Napoleon was on his way out. He had thought he was clear of all the building's security and had stupidly let his guard down a fraction. But he was far from defenceless; as long as he had his voice, there were few situations he couldn't escape.

Very slowly, he raised his empty hand in a gesture of surrender, and went for a friendly smile.

"Let's not do anything we'll regret, eh?" he began.

The guard didn't get the chance to react. From off to one side, a kind of growl emanated from the darkness, and then a huge shape impacted the guard at high speed, barrelling him into the wall. Grunts and pummelling noises followed, as Napoleon stood and watched his partner beat the guard to a bloody pulp.

After a few long moments, Napoleon had had enough.

"Illya!" he hissed, impatiently, not sure if he would get a response.

But the big Russian stilled, dropping the now motionless guard unceremoniously to the ground and looking round slowly.

"Are you quite finished?" Napoleon asked.

Illya blinked, then nodded briskly. "Yes," he said. "We go now. Gaby will be waiting."

And she was. Napoleon followed Illya out of the drain tunnel to their rendezvous point, to find Gaby sitting anxiously in a stolen car. They piled in, Napoleon taking the front passenger seat and Illya practically filling the back. Gaby had the car speeding away almost before they were inside.

"Did you get it?" she asked.

Napoleon patted the camera that hung at his side. "Every bit," he confirmed.

"What took you so long?" she wanted to know.

Napoleon glanced over his shoulder at Illya, who stared silently back at him, face impassive.

"We met with some unexpected company on the way out," Napoleon said. "Nothing we couldn't take care of, though."

Gaby took her eyes off the road for a second to raise her eyebrows at him, evidently sensing something off in his tone, but he just shrugged at her, not willing to go into it right then. Familiar with their competitiveness and frequent disagreements, she just rolled her eyes and went back to concentrating on driving.

Gaby dropped Napoleon and Illya off at the safe-house, immediately going on alone to give the intelligence they had stolen to an UNCLE contact elsewhere in the vicinity.

Illya went in first, Napoleon trailing behind in squelching boots. As soon as they were both through the door, Illya whirled and pinned Napoleon against it, kissing him hard. This wasn't entirely unexpected; post-mission sex was now a regular occurrence, especially when Gaby left them to their own devices. It had started a few months back, after a particularly close call for them both on a mission. Napoleon now couldn't remember who had actually been the instigator; they had both been high on adrenalin and needing a release. It had seemed entirely natural at the time, and had since been frequently repeated. There had been no discussion – either before or afterwards – though, and Napoleon thought it was now time to remedy that.

He pushed against Illya's chest, but the Russian's bulk didn't move an inch. Wrenching his head to one side and freeing his mouth from Illya's lips, Napoleon said firmly, "Illya, stop."

Blue eyes met his in confusion. "Why?"

"Because I want to talk to you for a minute, okay?" Napoleon had no idea where this conversation was heading; he just knew he had to start it.

Illya released him completely and stepped back a pace, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Talk?" Illya queried, spitting the word out as if it tasted bad. "Don't turn into lovesick schoolgirl, Cowboy."

Napoleon sighed. This wasn't going to be easy. "I don't want to talk about this," he said, gesturing vaguely at the space between them. "I want to talk about what happened earlier. I was perfectly capable of dealing with that guard myself, you know."

Illya snorted. "How? He had gun to your head."

Napoleon bristled. "I would have thought of something," he said. "I survived worse missions than that before I met you. I don't need you swooping in to rescue me at the first sign of trouble."

"My way was quicker," Illya said, simply. "More efficient."

"A bit extreme, though, don't you think?" Napoleon asked. "There was no need for quite so much force."

One of Illya's fingers started tapping against his arm. "Nobody hurts my Cowboy," he snarled.

Napoleon recognised the warning signs but ploughed on regardless. "Now, there we're getting to the heart of the matter. I'll have you know, I'm not 'your' anything. And I'm not some helpless damsel in distress, either."

Illya dropped his hands to his sides, and Napoleon watched them trembling, wondering quite how badly this was going to end. He pressed on, though, determined to see it through.

"Now who's acting like a lovesick schoolgirl?" he asked, mockingly. "Granted, a hulking, uncontrollable, Neanderthal schoolgirl, but a schoolgirl nonetheless."

And then he was trapped against the door again, one of Illya's massive hands around his throat. Napoleon reacted exactly the opposite way to normal, difficult though it was. He remained absolutely motionless, his arms relaxed at his sides, and regarded his partner solemnly.

"Illya, please," he said, still just about able to talk. "You're making my point for me."

This situation was on a knife's edge, and Napoleon wasn't sure which way it was going to fall. There was a long moment when he thought he might have gone too far, then the anger suddenly drained out of Illya and he dropped to his knees. He brought his arms up to encircle Napoleon's lower back and pressed his face into Napoleon's stomach. Napoleon stroked his hands through Illya's hair, and sighed.

"Oh, Peril," he said, softly. "What am I going to do with you?"

"I don't know," came the muffled reply.

Napoleon wasn't sure he was really ready to deal with the full gamut of Illya's emotional instabilities right then, so, point made, he decided it was time to change tack. He rested his hands on Illya's shoulders, and Illya looked up at him, expression uncertain.

"Do you think we can segue into the post-mission fuck now, without turning this into a whole big thing?" Napoleon asked.

A light sparked in Illya's eyes and he offered up a small smile. "Yes."

It didn't take long before they were both naked and tangled in one of the beds. Generally, they both liked it rough, especially after a tough mission, but this time Illya was almost agonisingly gentle. Napoleon put up with it for a while, then lost patience and neatly flipped Illya onto his back. He bent down and worried one of Illya's nipples with his teeth.

"Come on, Peril," he growled against Illya's bare skin. "You can do better than that. You're not going to break me." He sat back up, capturing Illya's gaze with his own. "Not a damsel in distress, remember?"

In answer, Illya surged up from the bed and grappled Napoleon back into submission, until he had Napoleon's wrists firmly pinned over his head. He grinned, and Napoleon grinned back.

"I'll try, Cowboy," Illya said. "I'll try."

THE END


End file.
